


day twenty four: the past

by Hannah (hannahoftheinternet)



Series: HartmonFest 2019 [24]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Georgian Period, Hartmon Fest 2019, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nobility, POV Hartley Rathaway, POV Third Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Present Tense, Requited Love, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahoftheinternet/pseuds/Hannah
Summary: In 1720, Hartley Rathaway is the prodigy son of a lord, at war with himself because he shouldn't be in love, but he is. He is so desperately in love, and he hates it.





	day twenty four: the past

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy, this one is rough. Massive amounts of internalized homophobia. Seriously. If that's an issue for you, go now, because the plot centers around that. Other trigger warnings for food, alcohol, death mention. It's... a lot.

It took Hartley Rathaway exactly thirteen years to realize he was homosexual, and it takes him another six years to do something about it. This slightly thrilling, deeply horrifying revelation came on his thirteenth birthday, when a friend visited the manor with a huge smile and trousers that were just a bit too tight. Hartley felt something swoop in his stomach.

What followed this massively scary realization was the hope that it was a passing thing. He heard lectures about the sin of sodomy, of course he did. But he always heard that it was a choice, a vice. He did not choose this. He would not have, and even if he had, he would choose to make it go away again.

He was smart enough to know, once he endured the agony of self-hatred for two years, that this was not just going to go away. He could not pretend it did not exist. So he acknowledged it. Into the dark of his bedroom one night, when he was sure no one could hear, he whispered, “I want to kiss boys.” After he did that, the thoughts were a little easier to bear.

While he was quietly coming to terms with the fact that he was not remotely interested in girls, he was also studying. There was so much to learn about the world around him. He consumed the world, slept in the library of his home more often than in his bed, asked his parents to hire the best tutors and the most knowledgeable scholars to teach him. He wanted to know  _ everything _ . He particularly loved engineering and languages.

Word spreads. Lord Hartley Rathaway, son of Lord Osgood Rathaway, is a genius. A prodigy. One of the greatest young minds in England. Thankfully, being one of the greatest young minds in England distracts him from thinking about boys.

Well, most boys.

Poring over his Latin texts one morning, he is startled out of his verb-induced reverie by a hand laid flat over his book. He glances up to see his mother peering disapprovingly down at him. Although he is nineteen, an adult, he feels about nine years old at that moment. “Yes, Mother?”

“Do you remember what day it is, Hartley?” she asks quietly. She does most things quietly, in stark contrast to her husband, who does most things very loudly indeed. “Have you been out of the library at all this week?”

He has not, except to relieve himself. He had ordered a servant to bring his meals to his desk. Latin verbs are far more important than socialization. “No, Mother, I have not. It is the first day of June, is it not?” He has not forgotten about the ball--how could he, when he has been reminded of it every day for months?--but he enjoys pretending to be unaware.

“And?” she prompts, her eyebrows raised. He shrugs, feigning ignorance. “The ball, Hartley?”

The game is up. “Ah, yes,” he says, “the ball. I thought it began at eight.”

“It does.”

“Then why are you rousting me out of my studies at half ten?”

She tuts quietly and disapprovingly. “You cannot speak to me that way. You may be an adult, but you are still my son. I am not  _ rousting _ you anywhere; I am simply reminding you that this is not an optional event. Your father and I expect to see you there, and we will see you there, understood?”

These words, delivered in the harshest tone she is capable of, might cow just anyone. Hartley is not just anyone. “I understand, Mother.”

“Good,” she says, her face relaxing. “I will see you at eight to begin welcoming the guests. Do not be late, please.”

“Am I ever?” he quips. He is not, but his mother likes to pretend he often is. He does not have the faintest idea why.

She bids him goodbye and leaves, and he resists the childish urge to thump his head in his book. There is exactly one specific reason he is so opposed to attending the parties he is forced to attend, and there is no escaping it.

He turns back to his verb list. The next one that catches his eye is  _ despero _ .  _ I despair _ . How fitting.

***

When he actually gets to the ballroom, he has to admit that it does feel nice to stretch his legs, but that is about the only good thing about this ball. Above all things, he detests having to speak to people, especially stupid people, like the teenage and twenty-year-old members of the peerage that his parents insist on inviting. He finds most of them dreadfully dull.

There is one, however, who he finds very intelligent and incredibly fascinating, but there is absolutely no way on this green earth that Hartley would ever admit that out loud. Mostly, he just avoids the object of his affections. If they must converse, he says something biting, and the conversation ends quickly. He refined this method over the years, to keep himself from embarrassment, and he must say that it works rather well.

He catches sight of the person he is both desperate to kiss and desperate to stay away from, and heaves a great sigh. A vision flashes in his mind, there and then gone, but it makes blood rise into his cheeks and shame flood him. The imagined sight of himself, pressed against a wall with a tongue in his mouth, brings with it the familiar self-disgust that turns his stomach into a hard knot.

A table at the corner of the ballroom, near a convenient door for escape, holds platters of food, and so Hartley gravitates there, realizing at last how hungry he actually is. He has been having maybe two meals a day for the past week or so, and now that he is confronted with real food on a real table, he is  _ ravenous. _ He has just put a sliver of cheese on some kind of cracker and is about to bite it when someone says, “Good evening, Lord Rathaway,” and something inside his chest dies.

“Good evening, Lord Ramon,” he says, turning to greet the person who has confused his heart and muddled his brain so much. Like Hartley, Cisco refuses to wear a powdered white wig, and his dark hair is tied neatly back with some length of ribbon. His eyes are soft. There is a flute of champagne in his hand. 

Hartley always,  _ always _ , thinks of him as  _ Cisco _ . They are not friends. In conversation, they are titles and surnames. But in his mind, in the same traitorous part of his mind that wants to be heartily and filthily kissed, Cisco is always going to be  _ Cisco _ .

“Is the ball to your liking?” Cisco asks, taking a sip from his glass. He seems more relaxed than the last few times Hartley saw him. No doubt this is due to the three-quarters-empty flute of champagne. Hartley noticed, when they had met previously, that Cisco was wary around him, quiet and closed off, like he knew that Hartley would end their conversation by insulting him. He is nothing like that now. He seems happy and free, like he is willing to deal with Hartley being positively horrible to him.

He hates it. Hates that even though he has tried so hard, Cisco still wants to speak to him. Hates how much he softens at the sight of that smile. Hates with all his being the coil of desire sitting in his ribcage like a snake that could strike at any moment.

“It is well,” he says, setting down his cracker. He has suddenly lost his appetite. “I am sorry to leave you so quickly--” it is at the same time a lie and not a lie-- “but I must go.”

Hartley tried to make a quick and graceful escape, he really does, but Cisco grabs onto his arm with his free hand and pulls him back, their bodies almost touching. Hartley feels something in his soul leap, and something in his mind cower.  _ I cannot do this _ . Cisco leans in, closer to Hartley than anyone has been since the day he was born, and whispers in his ear, his breath warm. “Be honest, Hartley.”

He stops being able to breathe, his entire mind split in two:  _ get away from me _ and  _ please _ . “It is not possible,” he says, more to himself than Cisco, his voice barely there.

The hand on his wrist clamps down just a bit harder, and before he can say anything, anything at all, Cisco is dragging him out the nearest door and into a dim hallway Hartley had not even known was there. The passage is dimly lit by a single lamp, throwing light over their faces, making Cisco look only half there. “I know,” Cisco says, plainly, voice still low so it has no chance to echo.

Terror claws at his throat when Hartley registers exactly what Cisco is talking about. There is nothing else it could possibly be but the thing he has tried so hard to keep secret from the rest of the world for fear it would lead to a noose around his neck. As casually as he possibly can, ignoring the swell of fear, he asks, “Know what?”

“You do not have to lie,” Cisco tells him, his eyes still soft and sad. “I know you like boys. I have known for a while.”

Hartley blinks against the tears threatening to spill over. This is the end of everything. His secret will be forced out into the light for all to see, and will die its rightful death with the rope of a hangman. “How?” His voice is nothing at all.

“You get a talent for recognizing it,” Cisco says, finally releasing his grip on Hartley and casting a seeking glance to make sure they are alone, “when you carry the same persuasions.” It takes a moment to register.  _ The same persuasions. _ These words, these simple words from that mouth, upend the world. Everything Hartley ever thought about the hateful nature of his love, about Cisco Ramon, is turned on its head with one sentence.  _ The same persuasions _ . “I have seen the way you look at me. I know you do not really hate me as much as you would lead me to believe.”

The lips of the man he has harbored passionate, dangerous love for are soft and warm and taste of champagne. Hartley has never kissed anyone in his life, and he never considered that Cisco might not be the same. Who has Cisco kissed that he can move his lips and tongue so well? What other boys are there in the world who are willing, are  _ happy  _ to be kissed by someone with strong hands and the faint shadow of a beard? Hartley closes his eyes and lets the kiss consume him, lets himself be pressed back against the wall of the corridor.

He lets himself, for once in his goddamn life,  _ want more _ .

And then something explodes, and he and Cisco are thrown apart, and every sound in the world vanishes.

**Author's Note:**

> This is officially the longest thing I've written for HartmonFest! And yes, I know the fest ended five months ago but what can I say? I'm a chronic procrastinator.


End file.
